Birth of a Kingdom: A Story of Love, War & Betrayal
by swaggedoutkidd
Summary: Three years after defeating Lucien, Sparrow returns to Albion to claim his throne. Greed and corruption are the law of the land. It's enough to test a man's mettle when friends are foes and love is a lie. When a Hero is tested, blood will be shed and heads will roll. Part 2 of Bringers of the Light
1. Arousal

**Author's Note: I place Sparrow at seven years old at the beginning of Fable 2, which means he left the Dweller Camp when he was 17. By the time he departed for the Spire, I put Sparrow at 19 years old to accomplish all the things that are part of this storyline. He was 30 when he defeated Lucien Fairfax, and at 33, Theresa instructed him to return to Albion (as described in Part 1 of this series "After: A Fable Love Story"). Therefore, he is 36 at the beginning of this story.**

**Also, while I recommend you read After: A Fable Love Story, it isn't essential.**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Arousal**

"Walter, Jasper, my fine gentlemanly friends, I think I would like to get married…again."

Walter Beck and Jasper Whitson exchanged glances with each other, and eyed their friend Sparrow over their playing cards. Walter, a dashing soldier in his mid-thirties with unruly brown hair, wild beard, and a burly frame nearly bursting through his well-worn uniform, said slowly, "Are you serious when you say this, Sparrow?"

Sparrow smiled earnestly at his friends. "Of course, Walter. I was happily married once. I think I could do it again."

Walter and Jasper stared at each other in their mutual loss for words. Sparrow was the latest in the lineage of long-forgotten Heroes and the aspiring candidate for the title of King of Albion. He was far from being ineligible for marriage in any way.

In his early thirties, he still exuded a boyish charm with his crystal blue eyes and almost eternal smile, but there was a rugged, mature appeal in his square jaw, repaired broken nose, flowing ebony locks, and powerfully husky body. Sparrow was also a significantly wealthy man without a ring on any of his fingers, as his fine brown leather gloves, brown leather pants, black leather boots, and white cotton shirt attested.

"You aren't referring to either of us, are you?" Jasper could easily have been Sparrow's elder brother with his dark, graying hair and angular, hawk-like nose. However, Jasper was slimmer, smaller, and had forbidding brown eyes while Sparrow's were shimmering blue with his overflowing goodness.

Sparrow laughed uproariously. "Jasper, I am perfectly heterosexual."

"This isn't the sort of thing one randomly introduces at a card game," Walter admonished while he stroked his beard.

"Agreed, how much time have you…?" Jasper's question was cut short by the shrill, lethal whistle of an incoming mortar shell.

"Hit the deck!" Sparrow yelled. He and his two friends dove beneath the rough-hewn card table only seconds before the mortar shell struck the ground with an earth-rattling boom.

The land of Albion was in the midst of the Noble Wars, a bloody, widespread series of conflicts that had lasted more than three years. In the dearth of any centralized power, Albion was under the thrall of mercenaries and thugs. Towns such as Bowerstone and Bloodstone had become independent principalities with shared natural borders of land and water, with their own standards of measurement, currencies, and hindered free trade. Merchants especially suffered because it was impossible to build an extensive trade network in such a volatile climate. The bandits ruled the roads while civilized citizenry cowered in cities.

Into that void stepped the Hero of Bowerstone. After a mysterious absence of three years, the Hero was revered still but only a few people had known immediately of his return. Walter and Jasper were among his first followers. While other men followed Sparrow in pursuit of adventure, for brutality and slaughter, or for wealth, Walter and Jasper had sought out Sparrow at the side of a road in Oakfield while the Hero ate apples and plotted his strategic attacks on powerful warlords in each region. From that day forward, the three men had become inseparable as Sparrow regained his fame in Albion.

"Is everyone alright?" Sparrow yelled in the limited space beneath the table.

"Yes, Jasper and I are alive, well, and whole. Although, as a precaution against future direct attacks, it might be wise to consider not flying a flag of the bloody bird for which you're named over your tent on the field of battle!" Walter said gruffly.

Sparrow rolled his eyes, even though he was confident Walter could not see them. "I'll keep that in mind, Walter. I just wanted to make  
myself a target rather than the men around me."

"It stands to reason that if you are someone's target, then it is inevitable that the men in your vicinity become targets as well," Jasper added. He glared at Sparrow in the small space.

The Hero swallowed the warning with gravity and suppressed a snicker at the gentleman's askew wig. "I'm sorry, Jasper. I…."

The whistle of a second mortar shell catalyzed a thought deep in the recesses of Sparrow's mind. "Avo's toe fungus, the bloody bandits are ambushing the camp!" Sparrow leaped to his feet—or tried to, as he immediately rammed his fine head of hair into the card table, denting it and causing colors to dance before his eyes.

"Brave and noble, you are, but coordinated and insightful, you are not," Walter scoffed.

Sparrow ignored his friend's remark. He dashed from the tent in which he slept more cautiously than usual, but still tripped in the dirt and fell just outside the tent. A mortar ripped through a tent to Sparrow's left. The anguished cries of the men who survived the immediate blast filled the Hero's ears and tugged at him to pull their bodies from the wreckage. He could not, unless he wished to sacrifice his own life to the flames devouring the canvas tent. _'Murderous gits think they can stonewall me by attacking my men? By Avo, I'll rally these men to victory, or my name isn't Sparrow Kenway!'_

All around the camp, horses, carts, and men rushed hysterically to put out fires, tend to the wounded, or carry weapons from one part of the camp to another without a direction or goal. The onslaught of mortars had come in the middle of the night, while most men were either asleep or winding down. Soldiers streaked across the camp naked or in pajamas, trying to load rifles, dress, or strap scabbards to their waists.

Sparrow became as visible as possible, knowing that the frightened, battered men drew inspiration from his undefeated spirit and indefatigable energy. Weapons-bearing soldiers flowed by the Hero to the edge of the camp, so the Hero raced to the defenses at the edge of the camp with his pistol in one hand, ax in another.

Fortifications made from hewn trees sharpened to deadly cuspate ends formed the perimeter of the camp. It had been Sparrow's policy since the first battle against the bandits dominating the pilgrimage roads between Oakfield and the rest of Albion to build fortifications with trees, stone, or even simple mud bricks. At that battle, the forces of an aggressive warlord named Fennis ran rampantly through Sparrow's camp in guerrilla raids intended to undermine the confidence of Sparrow's army. Building defenses typically came easily, especially as local citizens were eager to help the Hero of Bowerstone, but Rookridge was one area with a scarcity of natural building resources.

A few feet from the defensive perimeter, Sparrow saw that the entire span of the wall stood resiliently. _'Bloody bandits think they'll break into my camp in the middle of the night and ambush my men? Ha!' _His elation was short lived as another mortar blast only a few feet from his position sent him flying across the rocky ground, and the Hero landed achingly on his back. _'That nuisance must be eliminated, or else I won't have much of an army after this battle.' _

Sparrow's enemies in the Noble Wars were the united bandit factions of Albion. From Rookridge to Mistpeak to the gangs of Old Town, the return of the valiant Hero of Bowerstone had driven an iron-sharp wedge of fear into the hearts of Albion's cutpurses.

While Sparrow's victory over the power-hungry chieftain of Knothole Island had brought followers to his cause, most bandit leaders were old enough to remember an embellished version of his defeat of Lucien Fairfax. Few recalled his defeat of Dash of Rookridge or how the young Hero undermined the extortionist activities of Nicky the Nickname in Old Town. It was understood somehow that the Hero was not fighting for the bandits.

The merchants and farmers of Oakfield collectively had poured out financial support for his cause. Knothole Island and Brightwall provided hearty plebian men, and Mistpeak Valley provided weapons. The bandit leaders quarreled amongst themselves, which divided them and hastened their downfall. Then a leader had risen from among them.

Sparrow climbed to atop a cart filled with barrels, removed a telescope from his belt, and raised it to one eye to gaze upon the front-lines of the bandit army. _'I don't see him leading the charge, but that doesn't mean he's not with them. If I want to take down the body, I've got to cut off the head.' _ Another mortar shell screeched toward the exposed Hero. _'If that thing strikes, a lot of men in these tents around me die too.'_

He unleashed a Force Push spell fueled off his anger that flattened the cart on which he stood and shoved backwards anyone within a ten-foot radius. As the shell screamed to the end of its arc, Sparrow launched into the air, somersaulted, and nimbly landed on his feet ten yards away. The shell blasted a crater where he had stood, but no one was within its blast zone.

_'"Never fight from selfish motives. Only fight to protect those who are weaker than you." That's what Talos taught us,' _Sparrow remembered as he dusted off. _'These Rookridge bandits are going to decimate my army, unless I decimate them first.'_ Ignoring his own aches from the acrobatic landing, Sparrow checked the condition of each man around him and distributed small doses of health potions he always carried in a satchel on his waist. For Sparrow, the gooey red liquid healed open wounds without leaving scars, but for the men on the field without his Heroic heritage, a drop could mean a second chance at life.

When all the men around him had been treated, Sparrow returned his attention to the battlefield. Men screamed in anguish all around the Hero, and hardened his heart into merciless vengeance. However, the opposing camps were separated by one of the steep chasms that gave Rookridge its apropos name, as only birds willingly lived on the rugged mountainsides between Bowerstone and the rest of Albion. Short of wings unfolding from his back, Sparrow had no way to traverse the chasm.

_'I can't get to them, but they can get to me and my men. Avo's beard, how is that a reasonable outcome?'_ He casually glanced around his battered, smoke-filled encampment and spotted the solution almost immediately.

Behind the lines of mostly smoldering tents and cavalry preparing for a vulnerable ride into the bandits' camp, catapults and trebuchets launched flaming debris into the brigands' territory. Through his telescope, Sparrow saw that the debris inflicted less than a tenth of the damage of the bandits' mortars. _'They spare none of my men; I'll spare none of them.'_ He raced to the catapults and authoritatively called, "Corporal Swift!"

Corporal Jack Swift, still a teenager but with the impeccably dressed presence of a man twice his age, saluted the king. With his coiffed raven hair, smoky blue eyes, and distinguished bearing, Sparrow imagined that the mature young man had a wife waiting for him at home. "Yes sir?"

"I want you to catapult me into the bandit's encampment."

Corporal Swift stared at the Hero of Bowerstone with his mouth agape. Like many others, he had come of age with tales about the fantastic exploits of Heroes who roamed Albion half a millennium earlier. Sparrow was a living legend, and it was reverence rather than gold or glory that secured the teenager's allegiance. "Sir, you can't be serious!"

Sparrow seized the soldier by his uniform lapels. "There are friends of mine and yours who are dying on this battlefield. We are scarcely hitting these criminals with everything we have. I am no coward, Corporal Swift, and I will lead the charge body and soul."

He released the teen's uniform, and he stumbled to the ground. Still agape with shock, Corporal Swift said, "Climb into the basket, Hero. And may Avo be with you."

"I know what I'm doing." Sparrow dashed up the sturdy wooden trebuchet beam and settled himself in the low-hanging woven pouch. A smear of pitch surrounded him. "What have you had in here?" he yelled to Corporal Swift.

"A few diseased animal carcasses and some loads of hot tar! We thought they'd enjoy a proper bonfire!" Both men chuckled. "Are you ready, Hero?"

Sparrow clasped his hands together and mumbled the incantation for the Force Push spell. _'I'm not as skilled at this as Garth, but hopefully I retained some knowledge from those months of lessons. And I won't die in attempting this. That would be good too.'_ Sparrow built up the spell until it continued to grow without reciting any words. "I'm ready!"

The Hero heard the grind of a lever. When the massive pile of stones at the opposite end of the trebuchet glided to the ground, the arm flung Sparrow into the air. Wind whistled by his speeding body, slapping his face into a grimace. He tucked his arms, legs, and feet as closely together as he could while he continued to murmur the incantation strengthening the Force Push Spell. The gathering Will threatened split him apart. Sparrow had to ignore that feeling and the sight of other flying projectiles to control the lethal spell.

He landed, crouched with outstretched arms to dissipate the power of the spell. The ground beneath his boots quaked from the magnified Force Push spell. Everything standing or resting within a forty-yard radius was upset: Waiting carts shattered; food and munitions crates smashed into flattened tents; and weapons broke into shards.

Bandits took the brunt of the damage. The fortunate ones slammed into the ground or each other and were rendered unconscious or mildly injured. Unfortunate men tumbled into the mountain looming over the encampment or the nearby stockpile of volatile mortar shells, dying instantly.

As Sparrow rose to full height, bandits approached the Hero in a heavily armed circle. Sparrow cut his eyes around him. _'Bloody hell, I left my weapons back in the camp! I should have thought this through. That spell nearly drained me.'_

However, the bandits were timid to approach Sparrow even with the advantage of their weapons. _'Ah yes, even with my feats, magic still isn't commonly practiced in Albion. I've got the upper hand, so to speak.'_ Sparrow mumbled the Shock incantation, and sparks began to leap from his fingertips. A few bandits took a step back. _'Well, I'll just let my Will build until one of these morons decides to attack,'_ the Hero laughed.

After a few moments of stalemate, a youthful blond bandit boldly stepped forward, raised, and fired the blunderbuss in his right hand. Sparrow cartwheeled from the bullet's path, crouched, and launched a bolt of lightning at the young man's stomach. As electricity fried every cell in his young body, the bandits around him stepped back from Sparrow's fury.

"Look, he's killing Johnny!" one brigand exclaimed.

"Poor Johnny, he was so young and pretty!" lamented another.

The Hero smirked and called forth his Inferno spell. Waves of flame spilled from both of his hands, frying anyone in their path. As he swept his outstretched hands around the circle, the odious smell of roasting human flesh and the screams of flaming men filled the night air.

"He's killing our friends!"

"Stop killing our friends, you murderer!"

Cutlasses rattled in leather scabbards, and the noisy night air swelled with the cacophony of upset bandit roars and bullets fired. Sparrow rolled across the ground and seized a glowing blue ax that a soldier (now a human torch) had dropped, and the rifle from another's smoldering remains.

As Sparrow rolled into a crouching position to aim, two bullets grazed his right shoulder. He grunted in pain, fought the burning sensation, and hoisted his rifle high. Four bandits succumbed to bullet wounds in their throats, heads, and chests. "He shot them, right through, the bugger!" exclaimed one bandit.

"Instant death!" added another.

"You won't get away with that, you mangy swine!" Two bandits, one with an unsheathed sword and the other wielding a mace, stalked toward the Hero of Bowerstone.

Sparrow tossed aside his rifle and cocked back the axe, as if to throw it. The mace-wielding brigand stopped in his tracks, but the sword-wielder rushed forward with an almighty yell. Sparrow swiveled to the left, avoiding the unskilled sweep of the sword, and brought his axe-carrying right hand against the outlaw's shoulder. The criminal gaped as his arm separated from his torso in a torrent of blood, and still had that shock on his face when Sparrow decapitated him with one stroke of the axe.

The other brigand advanced warily. Sparrow blocked the swing of the club with his left arm, kicked the bandit in his pudgy stomach, twisted the club from his hand, and used the bandit's own arm to somersault into the air and sever his spine from the base of his skull with ruthless accuracy. While the criminal collapsed in a paralyzed heap, the Hero loomed triumphantly over him with the bloody axe raised high. "Who's next?" he bellowed.

Without a moment's hesitation, the remaining outlaws turned coat and ran. Sparrow shook his head. _'I'm outnumbered one hundred to one by that army of thieves, and they run off when I slaughter a few of their friends? Hopefully, my men will meet them at the gate, because I have bigger fish to catch.'_

Sparrow placed one boot-clad foot on the bandit's broad back and leaned close to the thief's right ear. "Where is Blackbrow?"

"I-I don't know! And I wouldn't tell if I did know!" the brigand exclaimed.

The Hero dragged the ax along the bandit's back until he bled copiously. "That was the wrong answer. I doubt you can feel it, but I just cut your back open, very near your kidneys. Since I also doubt you know what that is, let me tell you it's a valuable part of your body." The outlaw whimpered.

"If I cut your kidneys, you will bleed to death _very slowly._ Is that what you prefer?"

"Y-You wouldn't do that! Y-You're one of the g-good guys!"

Sparrow leaned into the bandit's ear. "I may be good, but I'm not exactly pure."

"Blackbrow's…" The ground beneath them quaked violently. A heartbeat later, it shook again and again, as if a powerful pair of feet trod upon it. The bandit yelped triumphantly.

"Ha! He's here! Black Brow is here! And he's going to beat your puny arse into a grave in Bowerstone Cemetery, mark my words!"

Sparrow took the bandit's steel flintlock pistol as the rumbling ground heralded the rapid approach of the gargantuan brigand leader. He checked and spotted a mere three bullets in the chamber. _'Come out, come out, wherever you are.'_

With a footstep that flattened every remaining tent, a mountain-sized man burst through the incinerated remains of the encampment. His skin and eyes were so incredibly dark, the flames seemed to flicker from within his glistening skin. The man grinned broadly to reveal gleaming ivory teeth, each the size of a large rock. Everything about him was gargantuan, from the muscles rippling on his shirtless torso and arms to the bone-like jewelry adorning his arms, neck, and waist. His lower body was clad in yellow linen pants large enough to house a family, a bone-belt, and yellow shoes covering feet as long as Sparrow's entire arm. Atop his massive bald head, he wore a black tricorn hat.

"Hero," Blackbrow, the Samarkander Bandit King greeted in a deep rumbling tone.

Blackbrow was a legendary figure who was believed to be descended from the renowned Hero Thunder. Legend held that as an infant, he was enslaved by a wealthy merchant in Rookridge, and the boy-slave grew to the height of a full-grown man before his twelfth birthday. According to the legend, Blackbrow executed his master after he was severely beaten at thirteen and recruited his fellow slaves as followers. Before he was fourteen, Blackbrow had embarked on a conquest of the roads of Albion and was famed among highwaymen and cutpurses alike. At only 21 years old, the gargantuan bandit was hailed as the king of bandits.

Sparrow replied to the Samarkander's greeting with a curt nod. Blackbrow seemed to peer straight through the Hero's skin into his very soul. "Why have you come here, Hero?"

"Blackbrow, your reign of terror over Albion must be ended! I have come to put a stop to your madness!"

The giant laughed heartily at Sparrow's pronouncement. "I am not mad, Hero. In fact, it is the wisest course of action for one such as I am."

He unsheathed a pair of lethal double swords, which were stolen directly from Twinblade's Tomb according to rumors. Sparrow feebly raised his axe too. If Blackbrow even batted at the axe with one of his gigantic paws, the Hero of Bowerstone's axe would shatter into splinters. _'By Avo's toe jam, I should have brought my weapons with me. They're made of sturdier stuff than this bandit gear.' _

To Sparrow's surprise, Blackbrow struck his swords into the dirt and rested his folded arms on their crossed hilts. The giant bandit looked like a neighbor stopping for a chat with his large face resting atop his arms. "Why would I do anything but openly exercise control over Albion's lucrative trade networks?"

"I cannot allow you or anyone else to control Albion by force and intimidation," Sparrow warned threateningly.

"You cannot allow?" The behemoth nearly doubled over laughing. "Hero, if you are chosen to rule this land, how will you exercise your power?"

"I would reign by the popular choice of the people."

"You would reign by force and intimidation."

"That would be the rule of a tryant!"

"That is the way any monarch stretches his dominion. To replace anarchy, there must be monarchy. Monarchy institutes its own set of authoritative commands and spheres of influential control. Anyone who acts outside those regulations or who refuses to behold the sphere, in which the monarch deems, is in violation of what that monarch has decreed to be law. To enforce the law, the rule of one necessitates a proliferation of armed men with the dictate to implement appropriate aggression commiserate with the violator's actions."

Sparrow gaped at Blackbrow's analysis. "I will not rule my kingdom that way. And I will not have some low-level bandit instruct me on the conduct of government!"

With a fierce growl, Sparrow lunged at Blackbrow. He held his axe aloft over his shoulder and aimed for the Samarkander's rippled abs. The gargantuan calmly folded his hands behind his back and stood upright. He remained in that position even as Sparrow leaped into the air and propelled the axe into Blackbrow's gut. Gravity aided the Hero's lethal move as his weight pulled the blade along the length of the Samarkander's gut.

The Bandit king collapsed to his side while the Hero of Bowerstone hovered over him. "I…suppose this makes you…the new king…of Albion?" the goliath Samarkander grunted.

"You killed dozens of my men and tried to kill me. I take no joy in your death." Sparrow tossed the axe into the packed earth. "I just rid Albion of one more bandit."

"Heh," Blackbrow wheezed, "you killed…hundreds of my soldiers…Hero. We both know…I could have easily…disposed…of you." He coughed a wad of blood onto the ground.

"Why didn't you?"

"A kingdom…born in blood…will only thrive…in blood…and it will end…in more blood…your Majesty."

Blackbrow painfully raised himself to his knees. Somewhere in the distance behind him, Sparrow heard the charge of enraged and armed men. "Your men…approach. It's time…to give them…your crowning…victory, Hero." Blackbrow yanked one sword from the ground and thrust it into Sparrow's hands. The Hero nearly toppled from its weight. "Prove…you're as valiant…as they believe."

As the sounds of clanking armor and winded men approached within a stone's throw, Sparrow shoved Blackbrow's sword through the Bandit King's chest. No expression of shock crossed the behemoth's face, nor did he cry in pain. Blackbrow histrionically slumped backward in his death and sprawled on the ground.

Walter reached Sparrow first. "We couldn't get all the bandits before they left the camp. But the buggers won't go far. They'll be on the roads in no time." He glanced at the corpse of Blackbrow.

Jasper joined them and stood opposite Walter, on Sparrow's left. "Well, you rid the world of that bandit scum. Well done, your Highness!"

He abased himself in a reverential bow. Without a word, Walter and the rest of the army gathered behind Sparrow lowered to one knee as well with their faces to the ground. "Long live the King!" cried Walter.

"Long live the King!"

"Hail Albion's new King!"

"Long live the King of Albion!"


	2. Foreplay

**Chapter 2: Foreplay**

**_Three Weeks Later…_**

Cannons thundered atop the stone walls surrounding the city of Bowerstone. Fireworks sparkled in the inky night sky over the winding route of the River Times. Crowds of peasants, merchants, and aspiring gentry alike lined Market Road to cheer at the triumphal entry of Sparrow Kenway the Lionhearted, Hero of Bowerstone, and the newly crowned King of Albion.

Everything about the new king's ingress displayed pomp and sophistication. The king rode astride a powerfully muscled roan stallion, which was bedecked in a purple-and-gold saddle with silver and gold headgear. Its coat gleamed, even in the darkness, from a thorough grooming ordered by King Sparrow, and its hooves were sparkling clean in a new set of gold horseshoes.

Sparrow lightly held the reins in his left hand and waved enthusiastically at the crowd with his right. He wore a gleaming gold breastplate over a form-fitting purple silk shirt, purple linen pants, and silver leather boots trimmed with gold thread. From the Hero's neck, there dangled a weighty chain of gold, which ended in a pendant of an island encircled by a rising sun. Sparrow's magnificent ebony locks tumbled freely down the purple velvet cape on the king's broad, muscular back. A seven pointed crown was embroidered into the cape's center in gold thread in imitation of the crown Sparrow wore. Each point represented a major town in Albion (Bloodstone, Bowerstone, Brightwall, Knothole Glade, Oakfield, Rookridge, and Westcliff) that Sparrow had conquered in his three-year journey to autocracy over Albion.

Market Road, normally the bustling center of Bowerstone's economy, was unhindered to the king's procession by the absence of its numerous, collapsible vendor stalls. Spectators lined Bower Bridge in the place of shouting salesmen. Banners of purple, gold, and silver (the colors Sparrow had chosen as emblematic of his royal house) streamed along the length of the bridge, and confetti congested the air from the hands of thrilled eyewitnesses.

Albion's new ruler rode at the head of the procession, followed by his most loyal supporters, the Army of Albion. Immediately behind the king's stallion, Jasper and Walter trotted in tandem on midnight black stallions. Both men were dressed in silver military uniforms with gold shoulder epaulettes, gold buttons along the double-breasted tunic, and silver linen pants and boots. Behind them the newly appointed captains, including the newly promoted Jack Swift, waved to the crowd in uniforms of a similar design to the ones worn by Jasper and Walter but in gold, and rode astride white stallions.

The army corporals behind them wore purple uniforms and rode dappled gray horses. At the rear of the procession, dapper foot soldiers marched with their rifles hoisted proudly over their shoulders. They wore the simplest uniforms, all-white cotton tunics and cotton pants with polished black leather boots.

As the king led the parade into Fairfax Gardens, the spectators became more refined in dress, in silks and linen rather than common cotton or wool. Most of the spectators in Fairfax Gardens had traveled from Brightwood, Knothole Island, or even Mistpeak Valley in the north to view King Sparrow of Fenway's triumphal entry into the capital of Albion. They were wealthy merchants, plantation farmers and wool producers, and had provided stupendous financial support for the Hero's army in its formative years. Because of their aid, these wealthier citizens were invited to participate in the most personal and coveted of the coronation festivities: the coronation ball.

Sparrow dismounted in front of the cobbled circle road winding its way through the lush gardens in front of the castle. Walter and Jasper flanked the king as he climbed the stairs to Fairfax Castle's massive mahogany doors. Everything about the castle's exterior, from the ornamental flowerbeds to the whitewashed walls to the solid gold knocker, bespoke of decadence and luxury.

The castle's interior was a different story.

_'Avo's middle finger, this is a depressing place.' _Sparrow surveyed the castle's vaulted main hall. The main hall echoed every footstep from Sparrow and the men following him. Even with its windows permitting a flood of moonlight, the bustle of the household staff and the fluttering, gaily colored banners strung along the elegant marble columns, the endless main hall was devoid of life. _'It feels more like a tomb than a family home: no portraits on the walls, no fires roasting, and no furniture.' _

Sparrow heard someone behind him moving and instinctively turned. The aristocratic audience had followed his army and awaited the autocrat's orders. Sparrow snapped his fingers in the direction of the kitchen.

As rehearsed, a maid with short red hair brought him a bottle of chilled fine champagne. Sparrow uncorked it with his left thumb. The audience oohed at the fount that erupted from the bottle.

"Let the revelry begin!" he declared and took an enthusiastic swig.

Wine and champagne flowed freely that night. The festivities to celebrate the ascension of the first monarch of an united Albion commenced that night and ended sometime before dawn. Platters of Albion's finest foods circulated the gala until every morsel had been consumed. Jugglers, lute players, minstrels, and acrobats from all over Albion entertained the guests. There was hardly a somber or sober face to be found among the partygoers.

Yet the guest of honor was constrained.

Sparrow danced with more comely Alban women than he could count. He chatted animatedly with aristocratic merchants and menial workers alike. When a crowd of worshipful children and teenagers gathered around him, the Hero-King reenacted several of his more famous battles and signed autographs like a man in his element. Shortly after midnight, as the revelry reached a feverish pitch, Sparrow slipped surreptitiously with a glass of champagne to the moonlit patio overlooking the gardens at the rear of the castle.

_'Charlotte, Rose, did you think I would make it this far?' _Sparrow traced the rim of the glass with his callused fingers and stared at the enormous, pale moon. _'I'm not only living in Fairfax Castle, Rose. I'm the bloody king of all Albion! Charlotte, I finally rid the world of Lucien's cruelty…but it cost me your life and our children's lives as well. I should have done more to protect you.'_

The King felt tears racing down his cheeks but did not wipe them. It felt reassuring that he could still cry for his sister Rose and his late wife Charlotte an entire lifetime after they had passed from his reach. _'I know you must be proud of me for getting so far. And Hannah, wherever you are, I hope you forgive me for hurting you before I returned to Albion. I'll never forget….'_

Somewhere in the sculpted hedges, five gunshots fired in quick succession.

Sparrow reached from the blunderbuss in his holster and checked the chamber. It was fully loaded. Although it wasn't the most ideal weapon in case an assassin or thief lurked among the hedges, the king was not willing to confess his need for help. He momentarily considered stalking toward the shooter but rejected the idea almost immediately. _'Anyone with enough skill to carry a concealed weapon into the castle has to already know I'm here. There's no use creeping in my own gardens, so here goes the opposite!' _

Before the shooter could reload his pistol, Sparrow launched over the low marble wall between the patio and the topiary. His husky weight crushed the dying autumnal leaves strewn throughout the dense grass. He charged through the hedges to the source of the gunfire and deliberately created more noise.

_'Even at my own coronation gala, I've got to play the Hero. At least this makes my night interesting.'_ Sparrow emerged into a clearing where three squat marble benches filled an enclosure formed by a horseshoe-shaped hedge. The shooter stood with his back to Sparrow, and his lower body was obscured by the hedge and the darkness in that part of the garden.

The Hero-King raised the steel blunderbuss to shoulder height and yelled, "Put down your firearm, or suffer the consequences, you knave!"

The gunman scoffed but dropped his firearm to the ground. In a delicate, feminine voice, he called over his shoulder, "What a grandiose speech from a man raised in the Bower Lake Dweller Camp! Don't tell me you've turned into another pretentious codpiece, your Majesty. I much prefer you as a man of the people." He turned to Sparrow and glared boldly.

He was a she. He was a very beautiful she.

Sparrow had to concentrate to keep his jaw from dropping open. He stepped forward to gaze upon the full length of her body in the incandescent moonlight and lowered his blunderbuss into its leather holster.

She was unusually tall and slim for a woman of Albion. Her body cut a trim figure in a scarlet cotton blouse with humble décolletage, gold silk bodice, and scarlet pants under a half-skirt. Blonde hair tumbled down her back to her waist in a ponytail. Her well-used gold travelling boots were heeled to be appropriate for the gala but without adding significant height to the striking beauty. Her face possessed a chiseled toughness, but the bangs that draped her forehead added softness to her glaring, glittering green eyes.

_'If I don't marry this woman before I die, may Skorm take my essence and roast it upon his cooking fire to devour!'_

"I apologize for my choice of vocabulary, my lady. I adopted it as part of my transition to a new socioeconomic class." Sparrow gave a brief, humble bow. "Forgive me, if you will."

She rolled her eyes irately and crossed her slim arms. Her hands were milky white and delicate, despite the lack of gloves, and gave Sparrow the impression she was highly skilled with a gun, to maintain hands so dainty. "You're the king of the people, by Avo's right eye! Why not talk like one of the people?"

_'Did she just say, "By Avo's right eye"? We even curse similarly! This must be fate!'_ The Hero deliberated his options. If he continued to talk like one of the erudite merchants, she would dismiss him as "pompous." If he spoke in his vernacular, she might think he was a bumpkin. Sparrow shrugged his shoulders.

"It's easier to talk like an aristocrat," he said in his adopted Bower Lake dialect.

She thoughtfully raised one eyebrow. "I suppose I agree. With all those exaggerated gestures, the haughty tone, and the oblivious use of verbage, it does not take much to imitate."

"That isn't entirely what I meant." She shot him a prodding glance, but Sparrow chose to steer the conversation elsewhere. "Are you an aristocrat?"

"Only the aristocracy revels this late and this raucously, your Majesty."

Sparrow chuckled. "My lady, you have yet to attend a Dweller party. As a young boy, I danced at Dweller celebrations that lasted for days on end. The music and the dancing went as long as there was a warm fire and plenty of cold ale."

"I would like to attend such a party, if your Majesty would escort me?"

"I would escort you, my Lady, if I knew your name, as you know mine?"

She curtsied deeply and captivated Sparrow with her easy grace. "I am Eleanor Norfolk of Bloodstone."

Her surname struck a chord in the Hero's memory. "Are you related to Lord Owen Norfolk of Bloodstone?"

"Yes, your Majesty; Lord Owen is my father. I spent my childhood cooped inside my father's Bloodstone mansion, while my brothers experienced all sorts of adventures. We rarely hosted parties on that side of Wraithmarsh."

"Is that how you became adept with a pistol?"

Eleanor nodded and gestured to the garden enclosure behind her lovely form. The three benches and the topiary sparkled with shards of broken glass and pieces of broken stemware. "Yes, your Majesty, I was target practicing in fact when you came upon me. I felt it was a better consumption of my time and those wine glasses than merrily drinking around those horrid snobs."

Sparrow held up his blunderbuss and grinned flirtatiously. "I'm quite skilled with a gun as well. Perhaps you would care to see a demonstration, Eleanor."

"How very forward of you, my king!" One of Eleanor's beautiful hands fluttered to her chest and her pouty lips parted in feigned surprise. "You presume to display your weaponry and to call a lady by her first name? Why, whatever happened to your upper-class sensibilities?"

"I shot them in the buttocks with my terrific aim."

Both of them laughed. Eleanor's laughter was stuttered, as though she were unable to catch her breath from laughing so hard. "Your Majesty, I'm certain you pose no threat to my shooting capabilities. You were certainly no threat when you approached me."

"I happen to be well-versed in Stealth, Lady Norfolk. The former King of Thieves taught me himself."

"You may call me Eleanor, your Majesty. And as your instructor is no longer the reigning king, I can perceive that the skills he taught you were mediocre."

The Hero-King was enchanted by her beauty and ensnared by her wit. He reclined against a statue of a country maiden being wooed by a country boy. "Was my attack in need of much refinement, Eleanor?"

"I heard you when your boots trod onto the patio. I saw your Majesty before I fired the first shot. And I smelled your aromatic cologne before you leaped over the railing. If I had wanted, I could have slain Albion's Hero-King."

"Who is to say you have not?" Eleanor blushed profoundly. Scarlet blossomed from her slender throat to her gorgeously tough face. Sparrow smirked and decided to change the subject. "How did you become so skillful with the gun, my lady?"

"According to my father, our clan is descended from two great Heroes of old: Ranger of Witchwood and Briar Rose of Bowerstone."

"I have heard of Briar Rose, but not of Ranger. Allegedly, Briar Rose lived into the age of the first crafted muskets and pistols."

Eleanor nodded knowledgeably. "Yes, Briar Rose lived more than a century, long after the disappearance of the Hero of Oakvale. My family's legend tells that she met the Hero Ranger while he practiced with his bow one day near the Temple of Light in Witchwood, near the old Knothole Glade."

Sparrow wiped one of the garden benches free of glass. "Miss Norfolk, would you care to sit in the presence of the king?"

Her lovely green eyes widened. "If it pleases you, your Majesty, I will." Eleanor rested daintily on the bench, and the King parked himself beside her. Although it was against iron-clad rules of courtship in Albion for an unmarried woman to sit so near any man, Eleanor did not seem ill-at-ease with their arrangement.

"I sense there's a story here. Do tell it, my lady."

"You may call me Eleanor, your Majesty. There is no need for the formalities of the court here."

"I prefer the implications of addressing you as my lady, Eleanor."

The blonde aristocrat beamed. Her milky skin suffused with the moon's radiance, producing a wondrous luminosity around her. "Briar Rose was very much a scholar at heart and more adept at Will than Skill at this time. She approached Ranger to compliment his abilities, and with one look at her, he fell deeply in love. They married within a year, fought side-by-side to rid Witchwood of the Balverine population, and evacuated Witchwood with the rest of Knothole Glade to start a family."

"You make a terrific storyteller." _'The best part of the story was gazing into your glorious green eyes and fair face.'_

"Well, I have had years of practice," Eleanor replied humbly. "But there is reason to believe my father's story is true. My three elder brothers are first-rate shooters as well. You may have known one of them, Logan Norfolk of Bloodstone?"

Sparrow pondered the name. It was familiar somehow, but the Hero was unable to place it among the numerous quests he had performed in his lifetime, the neighbors from his former residence in Brightwood, and the soldiers from his army. "I apologize, but I cannot recall the name, Eleanor."

"Logan served—and died—in your army, your Majesty."

_'Avo's moldy toe jam, there goes my wedding plan! Maybe I can end this magnificent night without presenting myself as an insensitive lout.'_ Sparrow contorted his face into a contrite expression. "Eleanor, I am so grieved to hear that. Was he part of the heavy casualties sustained in the Battle of Rookridge?"

"No, he died in hand-to-hand combat when your army was ambushed in Silverpines."

"I remember that battle. It was…very difficult."

Sparrow's memory of that battle was far from fond. Brigands had captured the town of Silverpines in central Albion, just north of the Bower Lake Dweller Camp, and controlled the silver supply for which the town was named. Sparrow's army was moderately sized at the time and had devoured two days sieging the bandit fortifications. When the brigands capitulated, Sparrow, Walter, and two other soldiers marched into the town's primary mine shaft to extricate imprisoned rebels. Bandits detonated explosives at the entrance, and trapped them inside the cave for four days. Walter and Sparrow still had nightmares.

"That battle cost fifty-two civilian lives. The filthy bandits slew one person atop the town walls for every hour that we continued the siege."

"Why didn't you surrender, your Majesty?"

"I've wondered that myself, quite often. Had I acquiesced to those criminals, their cruelty would not have ended. Albion would not become unified, and there would be no sense of law and order in the land. I clung to that vision throughout the siege, and that vision cost the lives of fifty-two civilians and eighteen soldiers, including your brother." Sparrow sighed steadfastly. "Forgive me, Eleanor. I had…displaced…the memory of that battle."

"Your Majesty, I doubt you ever anticipated meeting me. Therefore, you had no cause to remember a death so significant to me."

Eleanor rested her gentle hand atop his coarse one. _'I may spontaneously combust from this woman's touch. I haven't felt like this about any woman since Charlotte. Even Hannah did not appeal to me the way she does.'_

"You speak with such words of wisdom. How old are you, my lady?"

"I was raised around men of great insight and intellect," Eleanor deflected.

"You were not raised around women?"

"My mother died of fever after giving birth to me, and I was her only daughter. My father never remarried. Their sisters live throughout Albion."

"I offer my condolences." Sparrow rested his hand near Eleanor's lap, in which rested her exquisite clasped hands. "My sister Rose and I lived with a disgraced father until I was of age to walk, when he conveniently found his way to the bottom of the River Times. We had no other relatives, except each other, and when she died, I was alone."

Eleanor rested her hand on Sparrow's left arm. "I cannot imagine what that must have been like, your Majesty."

Her gaze urged the Hero to milk the moment. "They were difficult times indeed. Lord Lucien was still Bowerstone's figure of power and authority. Because of him, my sister was murdered, but without his authoritative presence, Bowerstone became worse."

"I regret to say that was before I was born."

"My lady, you never responded to my earlier question: How old are you?"

Eleanor stood and curtsied before Sparrow. He studied her splendid lineless face, her ageless smile, and her lithe figure, unable to determine her age. "I was born in mid-December, and this will be my seventeenth winter, your Majesty."

_'Dear Avo, she is as old as I was when Theresa sent me from the Dweller camp by Bower Lake! I was so naïve and tender at that age. This girl could not possibly understand her own mind. I should not gaze upon her a moment more with affection or lust.'_

Sparrow turned his repulsed eyes from Eleanor's proud bosom. "You're so young to have seen so much death, my lady."

**"**Am I so young that you would refrain from our conversation, King Sparrow? Am I so young that I should neither observe your shyness, nor comment upon it?"

Sparrow returned his eyes to her face. The blonde's sharp green eyes pierced something inside him, and he could not conceal the truth. "No, Eleanor, you are so young that I should not hope to marry you. I have been a Hero as long as you have been alive. There is no hope for us."

"You talk of marriage when we have only known each other for moments!" she laughed boisterously.

Sparrow couldn't help but join her in laughing. "You speak truthfully, Eleanor. What say you that we talk further, until we have known each other for hours?"

"We still could not talk of marriage. I say let us talk for days."

"We could talk further still and know each other for weeks."

"Months," Eleanor offered mischievously.

"How does a lifetime sound to you?" Sparrow offered his hand to her.

Eleanor placed her warm, gentle hand in his. "I think I would like that."

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**Author's Note: Chapter 3 is already underway and is titled "Intercourse." I hope you enjoyed this one. Please review. I need any comments, even negative ones, to continue to grow as a writer.**


	3. Intercourse

**Author's Note: I apologize for the long hiatus on this story. It's not easy to stay inspired without reviews (hint, hint, joking—slightly). I decided to introduce Reaver at this point, and trust me, he's going to play a ****_very_**** big role in the story to come. Fan of Sparrow? I'm going to make you hate him by the end of the story. Fan of Reaver? You'll be surprised by the depths to which he sinks at the end of the story. That's all I can say for now. Enjoy Chapter 3. Chapter 4 is coming soon.**

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**Chapter 3: Intercourse**

**_Eight Months Later…_**

An immodest display of white and gold lined Market Road as the carriage rumbled through the district from Old Town: banners of white and gold cloth; happily jingling white and gold bells; sprays of white and gold flowers; and the people of Bowerstone decked in white clothes and gold for those who could afford it.

An uncovered ivory carriage with decorative purple ribbons rumbled down Market Road. The horses were bridled to the carriage with purple bridles and the driver in his seat of prestige and honor wore purple knee-length breeches, purple vest, purple coattails, gold buckled shoes, and gold tricorn hat. Two armed footmen rode on the back of the carriage dressed in the same attire as the driver, but white leather boots adorned with embroidered gold crowns shod their feet.

It was for the two occupants of the carriage that so much white and gold bedecked Market Road. On one side, the handsome King of Albion waved graciously to the crowd and smiled beatifically at his subjects. Dressed in a white general's knee length coat with gold shoulder epaulettes, white linen pants, and cream leather boots, Sparrow had allowed hairstylist to dye his locks three shades darker and drape them freely over his shoulders. He had lavished money from his substantial personal wealth for the display for the people of Albion, as he was eager to showcase his companion, his new wife Lady Eleanor Norfolk of Bloodstone.

Decorated in a flowing white satin dress with a gossamer train and veil that filled most of the uncovered carriage, the ravishing, fresh-faced blonde beamed at her adoring audience. Eleanor's tumbling, straightened hair rivaled her husband's in a style that would be envied by women of all classes and imitated by hairdressers throughout the land. Lilies, the young Queen's favorite flower, wove in and out of strands of blond. Her makeup enhanced her gorgeous, delicate features without overpowering them.

While she grinned at the wildly cheering audience, Sparrow clutched her right hand in his left so firmly that she wondered if he feared a desperate escape attempt.

They had wed in an invitation-only ceremony at the Temple of Light in Oakfield at sunset the day prior. The grounds of the flourishing Temple held more than 500 guests from Albion's lords, ladies, captains, and soldiers, as well as their personal friends. After the current Abbot had bestowed some advisory words on the purity of marriage and an exchange of vows, they were anointed with water from the Wellspring of Light and kissed.

It was a day's journey from the Temple to Bowerstone Castle. Yet, there were no stops at inns along the way because the newlyweds were eager to lay with each other in the solitude of their own home. Sparrow's only regret had been the guest list, a topic that still had him bristling, as his only friends were far from Albion and his family was deceased.

Eleanor had not spoken to Sparrow since the King had staged an ugly scene in front of the Temple of Light. As they strode arm-in-arm into the Temple courtyard, Eleanor wanted to greet her adoring guests. Sparrow remained restless during those conversations, shifting from foot to foot, glancing into the distance, or bluntly hovering over her shoulder. The new Queen had not seen her family in months but in searching for them within the crowd, Sparrow had expressed open discontent and they departed.

"My love, is all well?" he suddenly asked.

The teenaged bride turned to her husband. "Of course, Sparrow, it's my wedding day! I just married the most marvelous man in all of Albion! Why would anything be wrong?"

"You just seemed worried now."

Eleanor offered a dismissive smile as the carriage passed into the luxurious Bowerstone Gardens. The heady scent of white roses, lilacs, violets, and daffodils—only flowers of the colors of the new royal house—embraced the carriage. "I was merely concerned with the lack of time I spent with my family at the Temple. I know I'll see them at the castle."

"I didn't put them on the guest list," Sparrow stated simply.

Her emerald eyes widened in shock while her fine brow contorted in rage. "How did you fail to invite my parents and brothers to our wedding reception?"

Sparrow pasted a warm smile on his face as he greeted the crowd gathered around Bowerstone Castle. "I did not invite them to the reception because they were not invited to the wedding."

The young queen folded her arms across her chest. "Bloodstone is over four hundred miles north of here. There is no way that Jasper or anyone else can fix this problem. Why did you do this? _This is my wedding day!_"

Eleanor shrieked her final words. Several guests near the carriage gaped in shock and confusion. As they came to a stop at the castle doors, Sparrow snatched his young wife's hand from her bosom and hastily yanked her into the isolation of the castle halls. He ignored the bold stares of servants in the halls as his marching feet echoed on the lonely stone walls.

Eleanor wrestled with him, but the Hero of Bowerstone was much stronger than she. It was the first time she had felt so weak and unprepared since she was eight and her brother Rory locked her within the unused room of their Bloodstone mansion that formerly belonged to their mother. She had pounded on the door for hours until a servant came to her aid. Then, unlike the present moment, the master of the house was a man who cared deeply for her wants and needs.

When they reached the library at the rear of the castle, Sparrow flung Eleanor against a wall, slammed the door, and locked it. Sparrow ignored the Queen's gasp of pain and the indignation that crossed her face as he marched up to her and seized her face in the palm of his left hand. "Eleanor, my love, citizens of Albion just saw you display a tantrum less than forty-eight hours into our wedded bliss. Soothsayers would say that bodes evil for our marriage."

Eleanor shoved futilely at his hand. "You did not invite my family," she growled from her throat. "How dare you to lecture me on etiquette, you street spawn?"

The King glared daggers at his Queen. After a whirlwind courtship of four months, during which Westcliff and Southcliff submitted to the Army of Albion, he had proposed to Eleanor during an intimate dinner while visiting the Bower Lake Dweller Camp. Some citizens were impressed easily by the teenage queen's youthful beauty, charismatic charm, cheerful disposition, and wittiness. Many others, including Walter and Captain Swift, viewed Eleanor as nothing more than a pretty juvenile womb with strong social standing, from which Sparrow could reap the next generation of Heroes. Sparrow had embraced the former opinions while battling the latter without the Queen's knowledge.

Now it seemed as if she desired to prove her detractors correct. Sparrow wanted to strike Eleanor across her face, if only to bruise her. Instead, he backed away.

"You are the Queen now, Eleanor. Soon you will understand that sitting upon a throne and ruling over a land is more than being attractive and having your will done. There are also a number of unpleasant decisions to be made." He turned and opened the library door.

"Before I leave, my love, do not forget that have to preside over the celebratory gala tonight. The elite of Bowerstone will be in attendance, as well as merchants from Rookridge, Brightwood, and the Mistpeak Valley. We have many people to meet and many allies to thank, so prepare to smile, shake numerous hands and dance. Afterward, we will depart to our nuptial bed for a night of sexual delights." Eleanor projected icicles at him with her eyes, but Sparrow, the Hero of Bowerstone, was made of sterner stuff than the young Queen could intimidate.

"Make sure you dress to stun our guests, and maintain that pretty little smile of yours." With the finality of a blown kiss, he closed the library door.

In matching sky blue robes, the royal newlyweds descended the stairs at the rear of Bowerstone Castle later that evening. They observed loftily the dancers sweeping around the patio overlooking the gardens in tune to the ministrations of woodwinds and strings. Renovations on the former Fairfax Castle had begun shortly after Sparrow's proposal to Eleanor, so there was nowhere indoors for the large clot of guests to revel. The ingenious castle decorators Hanse and Chris Anders had purchased several pavilions, which stood gaily in the gardens to shelter the wealthy merchants, landowners, and their beautiful dance partners.

Eleanor was in her element at the gala. In her blue silk gown with gossamer sleeves, she glided through the party on Sparrow's beefy arm. Her smile glowed like the moon, borrowing its luminescence from that of her husband. Even when she detached from Sparrow's side to allow Sparrow to discuss the fiscal affairs of the kingdom in hushed tones with men who frowned upon a non-reigning woman's presence, Eleanor radiated such attractiveness and regal bearing that her position as Queen could not be mistaken.

She was gliding among the guests, bestowing smiles and laughter, receiving kisses on her hand, when Eleanor heard it:

"…being quite difficult, you know. He was gracious enough to impose an amercement on the scoundrels, just hefty enough to enrich the royal coffers. They paid it and increased their affinity for chaos!"

"If you ask me, the King ought to level the entire town. Let them rebel then!"

The Queen paused in her gliding pace to join the two men speaking. One was a red-haired, ruddy-faced, portly gentleman in a yellow rich gentleman's outfit that stretched over his prominent belly. The other was a slim, pale gentleman with thinning blond hair peeking under his shaved wig. He rocked side-to-side in his chair. The two sat across from each other at a small wooden garden table. An emptied wine bottle rested atop the table between two drained wineglasses.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Eleanor said lightly and pleasantly, "do you speak of my lord husband's policies?"

"Ah, it's the Q-Queen h-herself," hiccupped the slender aristocrat.

"Hello, my Queen," greeted the other in a high, nasally voice.

"May Avo smile upon both your houses this evening." Eleanor forced a gracious smile to her lips. "I still request an answer to my question: Were you gentlemen discussing the policies of my lord husband?"

In the presence of such a blatantly authoritative question, it seemed that the night air thickened with tension despite the congenial mood music. The portly gentleman straightened his slumping back. "Yes, milady, we were."

"I heard talk of a rebellious town. In what regard were you discussing them?" Eleanor crossed her arms over her bosom to impress the intoxicated aristocrats with the gravity of her body language.

"Your Highness, I am certain you have heard of the secession of Bloodstone?"

Eleanor blanched. She had heard of no such secession in the months that Sparrow had courted her, or in the weeks preceding the wedding. "Surely the fermented grape has played with your minds. I am Bloodstoner by birth, and my lord father is one of the town's most respected merchants. The people would not dare rebel against the rule of our generous King unless it were to the wrath of my father and my husband."

A sly, victorious smile crossed the slender gentleman's face. "That is the problem, Your Highness. You know of the concessions that the lords of Bloodstone requested of the King, all of which he denied them. Perhaps you could confirm for us whether it was your perfidious father whose seal was affixed to the letter and whose signature was most prominent on their petition?"

The bloated gentleman guffawed rudely. "Concession, you say Lucius? I heard that the underhanded fools _demanded_ that the King should create a Council of Peers entirely from Bloodstone and move the Royal Court to Bloodstone! Imagine the seat of government cut off from the rest of Albion by Wraithmarsh."

Eleanor blanched at these words, but the two gentlemen continued to pierce her with their words. "Why, if the King had complied, the political center of Albion would be isolated by the swamp. No one would dare cross it. It would be impregnable. It's perfect if you wish to keep enemies out."

"Or if you wish to keep the royal family in. Perhaps you could clarify these rumors for us, my Queen?" The bloated gentleman smiled but there was no warmth in his slightly yellowed teeth.

"Bloodstone would never threaten to rebel, or even attempt to extract such weighty demands!" Both gentlemen grinned as Eleanor's cool composure slipped away. "That is preposterous. We are loyal to the Lord our King, and there is nary a man behind the walls of that town who wishes to return to the former days of lawlessness. My lord father would _never _allow it!"

Eleanor ignored the shrill pitch of her voice or the agitated glances of the whirling guests proximal to her. She could not, however, ignore the laughter of the two gentlemen. "Your Highness, your father is leading the charge for secession against King Sparrow," noted the rotund gentleman.

"Yes, instead of bringing the wealth of Bowerstone securely under the Crown's control as your dower, you have become central to cause for its dissent and unhindered rebellion. Have you even been crowned yet, my young Queen?" taunted Lord Lucius.

Eleanor felt the focus of dozens of eyes upon her discomposed face. Like the two gentlemen before her, they probably all regarded her father as an insurrectionist or traitor and cast her in a questionable light as well. She turned to flee before her reservoir of emotions totally ruptured and found herself embraced by Sparrow's brawny arms.

The young Queen cast the vestiges of her anger regarding their early quarrel into the safety of his arms. Eleanor breathed deeply of his seductive mix of masculine body odor and cologne. "Good evening, Lord Lucius of Heathcliff and Lord Andrew of Rookridge. I trust you have enjoyed the pleasant company of my wife."

"Yes, your Majesty," replied Lord Lucius. Eleanor pulled back from Sparrow's arms just far enough to observe the two men bow to her husband in their seats.

"What, if I may claim the right to ask, was the topic of your conversation?"

"We were discussing with Her Highness the late secession of Bloodstone."

"Such dreadful, heartbreaking business," Lord Andrew added, "but we had not yet heard Her Highness' personal perspective on the matter. Certainly the future mother of the future King has a most stimulating opinion on the matter."

Eleanor pulled back from Sparrow's protective embrace. The cutting words of the two lords seated before her had recalled Eleanor to herself. A sizable crowd had gathered around the group and silently but eagerly awaited the Queen's words. She hoped her makeup had not smudged.

"Bloodstone has chosen to defy my Lord King. He has not yet spent one full year upon the throne, but such overt acrimony must be punished harshly. When Bloodstone falls to Albion's army and navy—and it will, for our soldiers are the mightiest and our ships are built of the finest wood—its leaders must be put to death as a demonstration against future insurgencies."

"You would have this treatment for _all _the rebels?" asked Lord Andrew.

Without hesitation, Eleanor responded, "Even if it means the life of the father who raised me, I would personally behead each rebel, if the axe were placed in my womanly hands. A daughter's loyalty does not supersede my loyalty to my king, my country, or my husband."

The merchants and landowners gathered around them applauded enthusiastically at the Queen's response. Sparrow was astounded pleasantly by his wife's ruthlessness. To express his joy in Eleanor, Sparrow took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.

_'I know how much you must hurt,'_ Sparrow thought as he gazed into her glittering green eyes. _'I felt your tears on my tunic, and I promise to do everything in my power, Eleanor, to bring about reconciliation with Bloodstone. You won't suffer that unbearable shame, if I can prevent it.'_

"Well, I am amazed at the magnitude of this applause! Are all of you _that_ enthused to see my return to Albion?" chortled a familiar male voice within the crowd.

Sparrow stood upright. "Reaver, is that you?"

Reaver, the Hero of Skill, former Pirate King and Lord of Bloodstone, sauntered across the pavilion to where Sparrow and Eleanor stood. He dressed as garishly lavish as when Sparrow first had met him. A turquoise vest with gold embroidery covered the billowy white cotton long-sleeved shirt on Reaver's torso, and gold-and-turquoise slashed harem pants clad his lower body. Reaver's feet were shod in gold genie flats, and his face was brightened by a boisterous smile.

"Yes, it is none other than I, the reigning King of Pirates, returned from Samarkand! Greetings to my adoring public, I am here for your affections once again," he declared with outstretched arms.

"What are you doing here? The last time I saw you, Reaver, you were off to defile all of Samarkand." Sparrow spat the name of the Hero of Skill like an extraordinarily vile curse word.

"Despite my best efforts to accomplish exactly that, the people of Samarkand remain as unsullied as they were before I arrived."

"My Lord Sparrow, who is this man?" Eleanor insinuated her body against Sparrow's, as if expecting his powerful physique to completely envelop her slender frame.

"Eleanor, this is Reaver, the former Pirate King. Reaver," Sparrow gritted his teeth, "this is Eleanor, the Queen of Albion."

Reaver bowed to Eleanor, took her right hand in his, and sensually kissed her soft hand. "A stunning young woman as yet unexposed to my…_presence_, how delightful. Have no fear, my fair beauty; I intend to expose you several times before the week ends."

Sparrow's hands curled into fists at his sides. He had to grit his teeth against his own venomous tongue. "Reaver, that is my _wife_ to whom you are speaking."

"Well, how delightful to meet you! I have no qualms against being engaged in higher congress with a wedded couple, especially after the drought I experienced in Samarkand."

Eleanor's right hand met his face with a resounding smack.

Several guests gasped. Reaver's scowled lethally as he reached for the Dragonstomper .48 at his waist. The Hero of Bowerstone snatched Reaver's hand, spun him around, and slammed him against the table at which the drunken gentlemen rested. Sparrow's forearm pressed against Reaver's throat. Lords Lucius and Andrew scampered to a safe distance to spectate.

"Well, well," Reaver choked, "there's no need for such aggression, Hero. I prefer it a bit rough, but I am _rarely_ on the receiving end."

"Reaver, you did not come bearing gifts. So why are you _here_?"

"I find myself in need of lodgings," he rasped and tried unsuccessfully to break free of Sparrow's grip, "as my mansion in Bloodstone is in the most unfortunate state of ruin and my fortune has disappeared. I hoped to find you in a pique of neighborly kindness."

Sparrow pulled Reaver to his feet, still holding the Hero of Skill's arm in a punishing lock, and considered his next words with the scrutiny of a sophisticated politician. Although he had spent his formative years on the streets of Old Town and in the Dweller Camp, years of dialectic training with Jasper had refined the Hero-King. "Eleanor, my love, what do you think?"

Reaver's eyes widened fearfully at a glance at the woman who bore him no sympathy, of all the women in the garden. She assessed him with her glittering green eyes then looked to her husband. "My Lord the King, do you have some empty property where the homeless pirate can reside?"

"Yes, my love, I suppose I have a residence in Old Town where Reaver could stay for some time?"

"Me, reside among the lumpenproletariat?" Reaver scoffed. Even when they were Heroes defying the authority of Lucien Fairfax, Sparrow was a wealthy man with properties scattered throughout the land. "Surely you must have _somewhere _more exclusive and commodious to one of such refined tastes as I?"

Sparrow again turned to his wife for advice. "Eleanor, what do you think? Is there anywhere more suitable to the tastes of a former Pirate King?"

"Hmm," she mused, "if he is apologetic for his repugnant behavior, we could allow him to stay at the castle for a short time?"

"You heard her," Sparrow growled. He increased pressure on Reaver's arm. Even if the Hero was immortal, Sparrow believed Reaver would still feel pain.

"I…am…s-sorry."

"You are forgiven." Eleanor projected her voice and added, "The King of Albion and I are more than willing to accommodate you, Reaver, and forgive you. You are welcome to our home."


	4. Climax

**Author's Note: I've never played Fable II and I'm not sure about the real distance between Bloodstone and Bowerstone. If there are any inaccuracies about the locations and distances, please let me know. Reviews are encouraged!**

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**Chapter 4: Climax**

**_Seven Months Later…_**

On the morning her life changed permanently, Eleanor awoke and went through the routine she had upheld for three months without Sparrow.

Eleanor woke when her maid arrived to lay out the Queen's attire for the day. She always made small talk with the woman, whose name was Amy and who was married to one of the castle guards. Eleanor allowed Amy to excuse herself before climbing out of her gigantic four-poster mahogany bed. Like the rest of her chambers, Eleanor's bed was draped with the royal colors of purple, gold, and silver. It was Sparrow's contribution to the décor.

Once the maid left, Eleanor drew her own lukewarm bath. Fortunately for the Queen, Bowerstone Castle was one of the few places in Albion with running water. Sparrow had made sure that the luxury of running water was provided by the renovations, even if it was never hot or cold running from its source to the Castle.

She changed unassisted from her diaphanous sleeping gown into something commiserates with her morning errands. That morning it was a black light cotton blouse, a sleeveless cream leather jacket, black cotton breeches, cream low-heeled leather boots, and cream shooting gloves. Before she managed her hair, Eleanor studied the effect of her outfit in the full-length gold mirror she had brought from Bloodstone.

Eleanor hadn't yet felt the quickening, but her stomach grew daily.

* * *

More than four hundred miles away, King Sparrow awoke to the sound of thundering musket fire and the roar of something he knew could not be human. The humid air was thick with magic, misery, and malice as Sparrow launched himself from his hard cotton cot. Sparrow was already dressed in unbuttoned black leather trousers that hugged his slim waist and black leather explorer boots caked with mud. As he ran for the opening of his tent, Sparrow pulled on a simple white cotton long-sleeved shirt. It clung immediately to his bare torso. He hastily grabbed a rifle and the Axe of Disharmony, both of which were propped against a chain, and dashed into the bone-chilling early morning air of Wraithmarsh. Sparrow immediately gaped in horror.

A few hundred yards away, a furious forest troll tromped through the Hero-King's encampment.

Sparrow watched as the creature tore apart a tent and flung aside the soldiers within as though they were weak toys. Riflemen formed a line of aggression between the King and the troll, but they fired erratically at the creature's head, eyes, and brow. _'They set a forest troll upon us? I'll slay __**all**__ those rebels in Bloodstone where they stand!'_

Initially, Sparrow had abhorred the notion of war with Bloodstone. The Bloodstone region was rife with natural resources that Albion could not lose to a prolonged war. It was Albion's second largest port. Eleanor had been born and raised there. No one had told Sparrow anything to the contrary, so the Hero-King had engaged Bloodstone's elite in a series of epistolary battles for more than two months.

Then, Bloodstone-based pirates had attacked a fleet of merchant ships traveling the route between Knothole Island and Bowerstone. Sailors aboard the ships had been impressed into piracy or slaughtered. Cargo had been confiscated. The entire fleet of ships had been set ablaze upon the waters.

Lord Lionel Mumfrey, the owner of the fleet of ships, had come to Bowerstone Castle in a rage the day the report arrived at his mansion in Rookridge. "How much longer will you tolerate the traitors in Bloodstone? This attack will be only the first on privately owned ships! All of Albion will suffer! Declare war now and end their perfidious existence!" he had demanded.

Sparrow was a wealthy king. He had given Lord Mumfrey financial restitution. Within a week, three additional merchants had stormed into the Castle with reports of destroyed ships, stolen cargo, and captured sailors. Their losses had cost Knothole Island several tons of cotton and wheat. Sparrow had had no choice but to declare war.

The troll scraped boulders from the earth and hurled them at the riflemen. Sparrow rushed forward, muttering the Force Push spell, and raised his hands. Boulders blasted apart against the shield of invisible energy Sparrow provided over the riflemen's heads. Several glanced backward and smiled at the sight of their Hero-King.

"King Sparrow's protecting us!"

"Look at that use of his magic! Some powerful stuff, that is!"

The troll was quick to realize the futility of the boulders and roared in rage. It sank into the earth and the riflemen cheered. But Sparrow knew something of trolls. He had no particular affinity for them; he just killed the ones who got in his way. _'Come on, bugger. I know you haven't given up quite that easily.' _Sparrow removed his rifle from his holster and stalked toward the spot where the monster had disappeared.

Before he took ten steps, the ground erupted beneath him. Sparrow was flung backwards into a world of agony and darkness.

* * *

The Queen diligently kept her symptoms concealed. Her cotton blouse was loose at the waist and tight at her bosom, so as to flatter her steadily swelling belly; she avoided stately dresses and suffocating corsets in favor of loose fitting coats. When she felt nauseous (which was often), Eleanor sniffed the smelling salts in which she dampened all her gloves, until she could escape the stimulus of her nausea. The court attributed her occasional mood swings to the stress from the revolt in Bloodstone.

After all, it wasn't every day that a woman's father and husband went to war against each other.

She was blissful that morning though and strolled into the Gardens with a smile on her face to rival the sun over Eleanor's head. A family heirloom pistol, Briar's Blaster, dangled from her hip in a black leather gun holster as she strolled past the guards and wealthy citizens of Bowerstone to the Rose Garden.

In the process of renovating the former Fairfax Castle and Gardens, Sparrow had dedicated a garden to the memory of his beloved older sister. Its hedges were filled with every color and variety of rose known in Albion. The Rose Garden dominated the roadway leading to the castle's front doors and exuded its fragrant scent over the castle grounds. Eleanor tended to it herself as a way of paying homage to the sister-in-law she never knew and to sequester herself from grasping gentry within the tranquility of the gardens.

"You're going to be an aunt soon, you know," Eleanor said to the life-sized statue of a younger Sparrow and Rose at the center of the garden. The statue had been based off the one picture the merchant Barnum had fully developed before his untimely murder in Reaver's Bloodstone mansion. "If it's a girl, I should hope to name her after you. Wouldn't that be something though?" Rose's marble likeness gave no reply. "I wonder what kind of father Sparrow will make?"

"Are you talking to yourself, your Highness?" a man drawled behind Eleanor.

* * *

Light slowly entered Sparrow's eyes and allowed the Hero-King to process the world around him as he regained consciousness. Sparrow realized he lay on the marshy earth with his arms and legs akimbo from the force of the troll's sneak attack. When Sparrow sat upright, the agony that radiated through his superhuman body almost blinded him. His ears captured a sinister, demonic laughter and the screams of terrified men, sounds that overpowered his own pain.

_'I am going to get up,' _he promised himself. _'If Hannah were here, she would say, "You haven't been beaten in a fight until you refuse to get up.'_ With a grunt, Sparrow forced cooperation from his legs. _'Well, Hannah, I'm up.'_

Sparrow's left leg dispersed a stabbing pain through his body. The Hero had to blink to see without spots of painful red dots dancing before his eyes. He glanced down and immediately looked away. A splinter of bone punctured the top of his explorer boots. Blood and shredded muscle surrounded the broken bone.

_'There should be some rule against seeing that.' _ Sparrow limped to the side of a munitions cart, grabbed the right sleeve of his shirt, and ripped it off. Advanced Heroic healing would repair the broken bone by the next day, but until then, Sparrow would have to combat his wound and the troll.

He glanced at the troll's hulking mass a few hundred yards away. While Sparrow was unconscious, the forest troll had moved closer to the line of riflemen trying to end its existence and had exacted revenge. The broken bodies of his men lay scattered around the marsh, dead or dying in the haunted mists. Yet many hundreds more were firing at it from behind barrels, atop carts, and behind fortifications outside its throwing range.

The incensed troll roared and slammed its fists into the earth, but not a single soldier was harmed. Angered further, it began to pound its fists on the ground, and the shock waves sent men falling beneath heavy barrels and crates. With his ebony locks matted to his forehead by sweat and blood, and a lethal scowl on his face, Sparrow looked every bit a man enraged. He checked his rifle, found it unfazed by his fall, and aimed it at the creature's head to fire five rounds in quick succession.

* * *

Eleanor whirled around, Briar's Blaster drawn and raised…in Reaver's curly face. "If so, you should be warned: It's the first sign of severe madness, my Queen." The Hero of Skill glared at the pistol aimed at his forehead. "And this is surely the second."

"What are you doing here, Reaver? Have you come to destroy something else lovely for your selfish gratification?" Eleanor lowered her pistol.

"Your Highness, how snarky you've become!" Reaver leaned on his ebony cane with its gold lion's head handle. The light blue of the vest he elegantly wore gave light to his dark eyes and color to his unnaturally sallow face. "Perhaps it is symptomatic of your condition?"

"What condition are you talking about, Reaver?"

His dark eyes drifted below her cleavage. While Eleanor appreciated the shift in his gaze, it was the sinister grin for which she had no love. "My dear Queen, anyone of worldly knowledge can see you are pregnant, enceinte, expecting, with child…"

"Thank you, Reaver. Your vocabulary on the topic is quite broad." The depraved Hero was not afraid of anyone else hearing but Eleanor was. "Now, I must tend to the roses, and I'm certain you have a flower or two to defile."

She turned on her heels, but before she could take a single step, a pale, dark-eyed man dressed in all black burst through the bushes. Eleanor gasped at the sight of the crossbow, loaded with a steel-tipped bolt, which he held aimed at her belly.


	5. Resolution

**Chapter 5: Resolution**

**Author's Note: Thanks to MagicMinstrel, Danny Potter8, and KXR for following this story and thanks for your positive feedback as well. You guys motivate me to keep this story going. The characters and the plot are derived in part from actual events and people in English history. For example, Eleanor is based in name on Eleanor of Aquitaine, but her role will be based on a blend of Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, and Jane Seymour. I'll explain more characterizations as the story unfolds.**

* * *

Made furious by the volley of gunshots, the troll stomped the marshy earth. A minor quake rattled the ground beneath Sparrow's boot-clad feet, causing the mortal men of the army to lose their balance. Sparrow stood proud and tall. He pulled out the Axe of Disharmony and sprinted across the trembling marsh at the troll.

It reeked of damp earth and wore moss and tree roots like a coat on its broad, powerful back. Sparrow hacked at the troll with each swing of his arm, and dodged between its clumsy, crushing fists with help from the Time Control spell. The troll was too clumsy to snatch him between its fingers, and its reluctance to leave the ground allowed Sparrow to cut the axe through its kneecaps. He rolled from the path of the troll's earthy hands swiping at his body and rose to his feet as the troll toppled onto its back. The monstrosity roared its fury and began to sink into the ground, where it could rejuvenate its body.

With a thundering thwack, Sparrow severed the troll's head from its body and removed it from the dirt. The troll immediately dissolved into clods of dirt on the marshy waters.

"Did ya see that? Did ya see him annihilate the bugger?" exclaimed one soldier behind Sparrow.

"What a killer!" another responded.

Sparrow strutted back into the camp with the axe hefted onto his shoulder. The encampment was a disaster in the wake of the troll's attack. Dozens of men lay on the swampy ground along Wraithmarsh Road, groaning from the agony of their wounds. A few had been attended to medically. Others waited at the end of the triage for time and Death to show them mercy. Those who were still healthy looked despondently defeated and had put aside their weapons to gather around their wounded fellow soldiers.

_'These soldiers need hope right now. They need a Hero,'_ Sparrow thought. He set his face into a grim smile without projecting an attitude of nonchalant joy. The battle with the troll had energized Sparrow; it was time for the final offensive against Bloodstone. He climbed atop a wagon and watched his uninjured soldiers focus their gazes on him.

"Men of Albion!" he declared at the top of his lungs. "The lords of Bloodstone have burdened our nation for far too long! With their high priced goods and their rebellious actions, the lords of Bloodstone have sought only to destroy the goodness and purity of Albion!"

"Here, here!" called one soldier.

"Those slimy greedy merchants!" yelled another soldier.

"They all deserve death!"

Sparrow signaled with his hands for the audience to calm. The men obeyed immediately. "Out of loyalty and compassion, I beg none of you to shed blood when we enter the city. If it can be helped, spare the women, children, and young men of Bloodstone."

"What of the Queen's family?" a man asked.

Every dirty, bloody, worn out face set on Sparrow's. It seemed to the King that even the wounded had ceased their agonized cries to hear his response. _'No matter what I say, it'll show these men if I truly care for them, or if I'm just their king.'_

"Leave the most egregious traitors to me and my weapons." The men roared in unison with support.

* * *

"No!" Eleanor cried. She protectively folded her arms over her belly in reaction to the sight of the arrow. An arm encircled her waist and narrowly pulled the pregnant Queen from the path of the arrow. She spun around and caught sight of Reaver aiming his revolver at the pale man. With one skilled shot, the assassin bent backward at the knees and slumped lifelessly to the ground.

Reaver raised the smoking muzzle of the gun to his lips and sensuously blew it. "Even after six years of absence," he slipped the revolver into the brown leather holster at his waist, "I'm still the best shot in Albion."

Eleanor trembled visibly. She stared at the bloody wound in the assassin's pale forehead. Eleanor's stomach heaved, but she suppressed the urge to vomit. "Who was he? And why was he here?"

"My dear Queen, even your pregnancy-addled mind should comprehend his purpose. That man was here to kill you and your unborn child."

Eleanor clutched her stomach as a wave of nausea rolled through her body. Her legs suddenly felt watery beneath her, but Eleanor was raised in Albion's second-largest port. Not only was she adept at keeping her balance, but she did not want to show even the smallest sign of weakness in front of Reaver. "Who would want to do such a thing?"

"Who could possibly gain from the death of the Queen and the Heir?" Eleanor glared at Reaver's feigned look of concentration. "I would think the likely suspects are those rebels in Bloodstone. But that is my opinion."

"Bloodstone would not wish me dead, or my child. I am beloved by my father and brothers." Eleanor swallowed down another rebellion of her stomach. She suddenly felt clammy, as if the day had grown colder without warning.

"Excuse me, Eleanor, but are you bleeding?"

The Queen touched the left side of her growing belly, where Reaver's eyes had landed. She pulled away a bloody hand. Etched into her left side, a sanguine gash oozed between the cut ripped into her blouse and leather coat. As skilled as Reaver was, the arrow was too swift for the Hero to pull Eleanor entirely from its path in time.

Eleanor felt very dizzy at the moment. "I think, I need…" She swayed in place and slumped into unconsciousness. Reaver barely caught the Queen. The last thing she heard was his cry for help; the last thing Eleanor felt was the tender embrace of his protective arms.

* * *

**_Twenty-eight hours later…_**

"Cannoneers ready!" Sparrow yelled from the rear of the artillery line.

Sparrow's army had taken more than a day to mobilize down Wraithmarsh Road to reach the fortified walls of Bloodstone after the troll's attack. His soldiers had pressured King Sparrow to halt the progress so they could bury their dead and treat their wounded warriors. Sparrow would have consent even without their pressure.

At the city walls, Sparrow's army confronted shuttered gates and strengthened defenses. The leaders of the town had fortified the Wraithmarsh Road entrance with a barrier made from stacked carts, dismantled ships, and bits of the town's quay. Concrete walls had replaced the wooden ones, and the gates were made from ships' masts bound together with strong ropes. Bloodstone had demolished its other three entrances from Wraithmarsh, which left only the town's harbor as the only other access point. And that entrance was guarded by Bloodstone's formidable fleet.

The king's army would have to enter through the town's walls. It would not be pretty. People would die in the artillery assault. Much of the town would suffer cosmetic damage, and those people who lost their loved ones would suffer emotional damage. But Sparrow was confident in his heart that it would be a necessary cost.

Half of the cannoneers angled their weapons higher, while the other half aimed low, directly at the city walls. They lit their fuses.

"FIRE!" Sparrow yelled.

In two waves of thundering blasts, cannonballs devastated the gates and walls of Bloodstone. Fire from the first wave of cannonballs shattered the barrier in front of the gate into splinters and fragments. The wall around the city exploded into chunks of projectile concrete.

Fire from the second wave blasted gaping holes into the sides of houses. Cannonballs eliminated Bloodstone's proud and mighty clock tower with its lighthouse-like steeple. The mansion of the Mayor of Bloodstone, recently completed on the site of Reaver's former mansion, collapsed under the cannon fire. The resounding noise caused the citizens of Bloodstone to escape their homes and run in terror in the streets.

Sparrow removed the Axe of Disharmony from his back and grinned gleefully at the destruction wrought by the cannon assault. He leaped to the ground and physically led the charge into Bloodstone's streets. His expectations were nothing of the magnitude Sparrow faced at the head of the charge into the town's streets.

* * *

When the Queen regained consciousness, she was laid on her back on luxurious purple silk sheets. Eleanor thought for a moment that Sparrow hovered over her, just on the other side of the purple silk curtain surrounding the bed. She blinked her eyes. It was just his portrait hanging on the wall.

Eleanor moved slightly. Her entire body was covered with clammy, clinging sweat adhered to her skin to the gauzy cotton fabric enveloping her. "Where am I?" Eleanor croaked.

"Rest now, my Queen." A Samarkander with mahogany-colored skin and ebony hair shot with silver dabbed Eleanor's sweating forehead. She wore the gray-and-white striped uniform of the royal nurses. "You have a great ordeal ahead."

"I'm so thirsty, please."

The nurse rested an index finger on Eleanor's mouth. "Rest now, Eleanor."

* * *

Guns seemed to come from all sides. Rifles jutted from windows along the main road, and citizens waited in the streets with revolvers. The muzzles of their numerous guns were all aimed at the king and his approaching army. Their blasts entwined with the screams of frightened Bloodstoners on the night air. Gunpowder, wood smoke, and clouds of dust rose toward the springtime moon.

Sparrow mumbled the incantations for his Inferno and Vortex spells. He unleashed burning flames on the gunmen ahead of him. Funnels of air seized Bloodstoners from the street and dashed them against the sides of houses. Sparrow launched fireballs at the riflemen in their houses. For every five men whose burning deaths Albion's king caused with his magic, one of his soldiers succumbed to a gunshot wound.

"Leave the Rebel Lords to me! Spare the women and children! Leave the Rebel Lords to me!" Sparrow yelled to his soldiers over the din of the battle.

The king marched through the town, slashing and shooting as he advanced toward Bloodstone's largest manse. Weapons of steel made him feel more alive than Will. Sparrow stormed into a house and cut off the hand of a merchant firing his rifle from an upstairs window. He ignored the man's curses and walked out the house; after all, Sparrow had allowed him to live.

"Your majesty!" A soldier in purple ran to meet Sparrow's determined stride.

Sparrow faced the soldier with an imperious glare. "Speak, soldier."

"Your majesty, according to several reliable witnesses, the Rebel Lords are hiding in the town hall," the soldier announced, panting for air. "We already have a squad guarding the exits."

"Thank you. I'll be there shortly."

* * *

Eleanor drifted for four days on her feverish sea. Several times she heard or saw the nurses who tended to her; felt the cool waters on her forehead, or spoke sensible words. But all Eleanor's senses were as though she held sands in her hands. They were memories she could not hope to retain.

On the fifth day, her fever finally broke.

With rheumy eyes and a parched throat, Eleanor stared out her bedchamber window into a blazing afternoon sun. Her room was stifling hot and reeked of menthol. Yet Eleanor could see the ships rocking on the placid waters of Bowerstone Harbor. Sunlight danced upon the mouth of the great River Times.

Eleanor struggled to sit up. The Samarkander nurse flew to her side. "My Queen, you have returned from your walk with the dead."

Eleanor grazed her parched lips, attempted to speak, failed, and tried again. Her bed and body felt dry and torrid as though she had walked through the desert, not with the dead. "Water, please," Eleanor croaked.

The nurse brought her a clay pitcher and a clay cup. Eleanor's body was greedy for the cool fresh water she watched the nurse pour; she consumed three cups before she spoke again. "What day is it?"

"It is the twelfth day of the third month. You have been entangled with fever for five days now."

"Sparrow….Has he returned yet?" Eleanor summoned much of her strength to push aside her damp pillow and rested her head upon the cool cotton sheet below it.

"Yes, my Queen, and he is with several Lords of Albion. I could fetch him, as you like?"

"No, thank you." Eleanor's weary body groaned. Despite her long stretch of rest, it yearned for more. "What laid me low?"

"Styrchnian poison from the assassin's arrow reached your blood, my Queen. The foul assassin had tipped his arrows n them. If the bolt had entered you, your heart would have stopped and your whole body seized up. The poison kills by immobilizing."

The nurse covered Eleanor with the cool white sheet, and she sighed with contentment. "Unfortunately, you were pregnant. But your stomach only took a glancing cut. You'll be whole and back again within a fortnight."

Eleanor only heard one thing of importance. She sat upright and her hands flew to her belly. But even as she moved, Eleanor knew. "I _was_ pregnant. Wh-what do you mean?"

The nurse smiled sympathetically. "I'm sorry, my Queen. Your body fought off the poison, but the child inside you could not."


	6. Fertilization

**Author's Note: I hope you're enjoying the story so far, and I do realize it's very wordy. Everything else in the plot has been leading up to this and the following chapters, because things are about to start getting seriously ugly for Sparrow, Eleanor, and everyone around them. Also, at my earliest mention of Eleanor's father, his name was Owen; in writing this chapter, I had his name as "Edward." If you notice any discrepancy in this chapter, please let me know. **

**Reviews are not only appreciated; they would be like food to me right now.**

* * *

**Chapter 6: Fertilization**

**_Two Months Later…_**

In the stygian embrace of nightfall, Bowerstone Castle was frightful. The stone walls echoed with a cold, lonely chill. Every turn presented a guard in the formal attired Sparrow enforced. Whenever she encountered the guards, Eleanor suppressed a gasp of surprise.

Clad in a simple, billowing garnet nightgown over black leather pants and a form-fitting white petticoat, the Queen's small, leather boot-clad feet were swift across the carpeted floor of the main hallway. Her presence was almost undetectable down the dank stone steps that descended lower than the gardens, lower than the castle larder, even lower than the wine cellar. Eleanor was bound for the boreal murkiness of the Bowerstone dungeons, connected to the castle by a series of elaborate but little-known passages.

She had to pass through half of Bowerstone to reach the dungeons. The air in those passages was not only cold and dark. Water and ice slicked the stone walls of the passages. Rats were foreign so far beneath the earth, but the darkness echoed with the sounds of smaller, equally vile creatures. Eleanor was thankful for the tricorn hat covering her blonde tresses and the torch warming her hand and the path ahead. When she reached the dungeons, Eleanor entered stealthily with the three keys she had taken from Sparrow's collection of keys.

The guards who greeted Eleanor were grim, hulking men. Here, the most nefarious villains of the land resided until Sparrow deigned to bestow justice for their injured parties. Some were capital murderers and secured behind three sets of heavy, triple-locked, double-barred doors. There were thieves in this place, so Eleanor was denied permission to wear glittering jewelry, even her wedding band. All had betrayed Albion in some way, so the ten guards standing in their posts along the corridor were known to each other by cognomen, rank, and town of origin. Two others stood watch at the door through which Eleanor had entered.

Eleanor proceeded into a corridor of cells that were as cool and murky as she imagined the grave would be. Seven cells were already empty. Four others were occupied by men lost to the world in dreams or catatonic with grief. The final one was occupied by a cunning-looking man with lively green eyes and graying reddish-gold hair tumbling to his shoulders.

His once fine clothes were frayed and molding from the length of time he'd worn them. They suited a larger man than the prisoner's diet of stale bread and sour cheese had made of him. If the dungeon had to be evacuated urgently, Eleanor suspected that the man at the end of the row at the bottom of the dungeons would be forgotten. Lord Owen Norfolk was barely recognizable to his own daughter.

Eleanor knelt beside him at the iron bars that composed his cell door with the torch held close to illuminate her face. "Father?"

The prisoner moved closer at the sound of her voice. Candlelight danced cautiously across his finely lined face and made his emerald eyes sparkle. He cleared his throat before speaking. "Eleanor, my hummingbird, have you come to feed me good news?"

Albion's Queen smiled sadly. "Not quite, Father, but I brought some of the nectar from which I drink." Eleanor removed a sack filled with still warm, buttery lobster-stuffed biscuits and a bottle of chilled mead from beneath her nightgown. It was the best way to transport the comestibles. "Here, delicacies direct from the Lord King's larder."

Owen Norfolk stubbornly refused the treats. "You come to me with food from the table of that bastard, and call _him_ your Lord King? I would starve rather than eat food from his table, made to suit his whims."

"Father," Eleanor said in a heartbroken tone, "Sparrow is my husband."

"And I am your father, and Head of the House Norfolk. I would think that the latter man should command your loyalties rather than the former, but it is apparent where your sense of honor lies." He haughtily folded his arms and turned from his daughter.

Eleanor gaped at her father. The only daughter of the eldest male in the House of Norfolk (and the only one of his generation), Eleanor had grown accustomed to her father's doting and attentive love. When she had brought King Sparrow to him as her betrothed, Owen Norfolk had been so thrilled by the new marital prospect that he had boarded Sparrow's Bowerstone-bound yacht without packing at all. It was the only time that the two men ever met, but Owen's respect at that time contrasted sharply with the loathing pouring from his body.

"Father, I…"

"Have you _at least_ conceived the bastard's spawn?"

"It would please me if you would cease to call my husband a bastard."

"Sparrow is who he is. Without a documented lineage, one needs be called 'bastard.' He was fortunate to marry you, Eleanor, because it is your pedigree that lends distinction to his reign. Never forget that again." Owen glared down his protruding nose at his daughter. "Now, please _me_, your father, and answer my question."

Eleanor started to tell him, but held her tongue instead. Sparrow's 38th birthday was not far away while her 19th birthday was approaching in three months. Although the King looked hardly a day over 21, his yearning for a child quickening in her womb was evident in each frenzied, passionate coupling. She still enjoyed each sexual encounter but not as fervently as she had on their wedding night. "We haven't yet, Father."

"What is wrong with you, wench?" Eleanor's eyes widened at his words and more so when Owen reached through the wide bars and slapped her left cheek. The blow stung her pretty face, but not as much as his next words.

"You've been wedded for nearly a year now! Does he fail to mount and stuff you properly as a man should his trophy? Is he defective in some way? I've heard he was born a girl, but the Temple of Shadows transformed him."

"Sparrow has only ever worshipped at the Temple of Light, Father," Eleanor reasoned with him and herself. Owen glared at her so coldly; he could have frozen the dungeon's lone source of heat and light. She shivered involuntarily. "I fear it may be me."

Owen sighed and his voice dripped with disappointment. "You had only one duty when you wed the King, Eleanor. What was your duty?"

"I was to provide him with an heir." _'I was not supposed to fall in love with him.'_

"Eleanor, you come from excellent breeding stock. Your mother bore me four children before she died to give life to you. I sired five children of which neither you nor your brothers knew, until this moment." Owen glared until Eleanor's reproachful gasp subsided into deferential shame. "You are a Norfolk. You can bear children.

"This is your destiny and the destiny of our House, to control the throne of Albion and lead her people into a golden age of prosperity, culture, and peace. You need only to give the bastard king an heir, and I will assemble and lead the army that deposes him. Without that troublesome upstart, your son would sit upon the throne, and I would be his Regent until he comes of age."

Eleanor noticed one crucially absent detail. "And what of me, Father?"

Owen's comforting smile hardened. "There would inevitably be a place for you somewhere, Eleanor. You would not be forgotten. None of our House forgets who helped us in our few times of need."

"I would surely have some hand in my son's education?"

"No, that is far too important."

"Perhaps I would be responsible for selecting his councilors?"

"Once I am Regent, I would select each of your son's councilors."

"I could be one of the councilors to help him manage the realm?"

Lord Owen stroked his daughter's gentle hands through the bars of his cell. "You could not do anything as important as that. You would be the Dowager Queen. You would be….Well, Eleanor, think only of conceiving an heir for now."

"I will, Father."

Owen smiled genially at his daughter. "Very well, now you must fly, hummingbird. Fly back to the king and give him an heir, so that our plot can be set in motion."

Eleanor smiled at Owen, knowing he could not see the sadness in her eyes for the glee in his heart. She kissed his wrinkled, once strong, hands. "I will see you again, Father."

"As will I, hummingbird."


End file.
